


The History of You

by Backwoulds



Series: Blood On My Name [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything Hurts and I'm Dying, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Original Character Death(s), POV Second Person, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 16:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12685728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: The whole "life flashing before your eyes" thing turns out to be less of a crock than you thought. So this, in your time of dying (so to speak), is it: The entire history of you.





	The History of You

**Author's Note:**

> Season 5ish? Maybe season 6 if you squint. Canon references only continue up through the apocalypse.
> 
> Story also references some of my other second-person ficlets.
> 
> It may seem like a lot of doom and gloom, but it's not all that bad! Always look on the bright side of life.

The last thing you remember is standing in that alley. Your vision is clouded by rain and blood. Your body is wracked with pain, and you vaguely recall a sensation that suggests you no longer have a right hand. You are aware of figures standing near you, the warm bodies of your friends that are as torn and brutalized as your own. The corpses of demons decorate the street. You can smell each and every one of them. Decay hasn't even started yet, but the alley still reeks of death. The world sways. Your legs buckle.

_Where am I?_

Something rushes you. You feel the screaming thing tackle you to the ground. Your skull cracks with the force of the fall. You have no time to react. Your vision darkens.

_There’s too much blood._

And then there's nothing but the sensation of floating.

 _Sam._ You think.

_Dean._

But they're gone, and you're alone, drifting somewhere in the blackness that lies between unconsciousness and death. For the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.

 

Is this what they mean by your life flashing before your eyes?

 

You've been hunting for as long as you can remember. You are a Jedi, as it were, like your father before you. Your dad raises you in the life, because your mom doesn't give him any other choice. She takes off when you're still young enough to need formula. The way your dad tells it, he tells her the truth about himself and she books it before the sun comes up the next morning. Why she doesn't take you with her, you'll never understand. You're your father's daughter and always have been. You give up looking for her in the summer between junior high and high school, or what would have been the summer between junior high and high school if you'd actually been enrolled in school that year. What you don't give up is the big gaping hole in your heart where your mother is supposed to be, no matter how often you tell yourself that you hate her and your dad has always been enough.

It's always been the two of you against the world: you and your dad, kicking ass and taking names. Even when John Winchester and his boys walk into your life, you are still your dad's priority. He never puts the job first, even though there are probably times he should. You both know it irritates John to no end sometimes, but that doesn't change a damn thing. John can raise his kids how he likes, your dad likes to tell you, and I'll raise mine.

You grow up in the cab of a Ford pick-up while Sam and Dean grow up in the backseat of an Impala. It's no kind of a life for a kid, but what the hell do you know? It's the only life you've ever known, and you don't want it any other way. You watch the Winchester boys grow up alongside you. Dean becomes the perfect soldier. Sam becomes resentful. You carry on, somewhere in between the two of them, never quite falling in line, but also never dreaming of running off and forsaking the life your dad has made for you. You fight beside them. Sometimes you fight with them. Shoulder to shoulder, head to head. They're your family and nothing feels more honest than that.

 

It's the afternoon of your 17th birthday, and you and Dean are parked outside a liquor store in Nebraska. He's 21 and all scowls. After a celebration of birthday pancakes that morning (your dad's favorite tradition: pancakes with whipped cream and sprinkles, complete with a single birthday candle on top), your dad hands over the keys to the old Ford and tells you she's all yours. You've never been more excited for anything in your life. You cajole Dean in coming along with you and hit the road, driving nowhere in particular for a couple of hours before pulling over for some truck stop pie and about a gallon of soda. Everything about the day is perfect, and there's no place you'd rather be than in the middle of nowhere with Dean Winchester.

You don't even notice the scowl until he scarfs the last of his pie and kicks at your (!YOUR!) truck's front tire with his boot. “The least your dad could have done was get you a real car,” he scoffs. “Ford? Fix Or Repair Daily, right?”

He's trying to get your goat, but you know better, and you're having too good a time to be pissy back at him. “Hey,” you shrug, kicking the tire yourself, “I'd rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy.”

It doesn't occur to you until years later that his dad hasn't given him a birthday present since his mom died.

 

When Sam leaves for college, a part of you decides you'll never forgive him. You see what it does to Dean. You see the extra weight John heaves onto his shoulders to punish him for his brother's choice. You start to resent John for the way he treats his son, and you start to resent your dad for not speaking up against it. Things go downhill fast.

By then everyone else John knows has cut ties with him. The Harvelles, Bobby Singer—they'd all sooner pull a rifle on the man than offer him a handshake. Your dad seems to be the only one left who will still talk to him, never mind hunt with him. You're more than ready to cut ties yourself, but you can't bring yourself to walk out on your dad, no matter how angry you are at him for failing Dean. You're fighting all the time. Hell, you're fighting with John at that point too. The only person you're not fighting with is Dean, and that's only because of how hard you manage to bite your tongue to keep yourself from screaming at him for having such blind faith in his father.

You used to love John; now you can't stand the sight of him.

 

You aren't sure when it happens, but one day you realize you are no longer the priority. Somewhere between childhood and womanhood, some time after your dad gave you his truck and before Sam took off, there was a shift. It's imperceptible to anyone but you, but it's seismic in its ramifications. Your dad treats you more like a hunter than a daughter. He still looks out for you (of course he does, that's what good hunters do) but it's not the same. It's no longer the two of you against the world. You're expected to hold your own. You're expected to focus on the job and ignore the feeling in your gut that tells you you're being shut out.

Years of John's influence seem to have done a number on your dad. He's a better hunter now than he's ever been, but he's not the same father he used to be. He's taking pages directly from John Winchester's A-Plus Parenting Playbook now. He keeps you at a distance, something that he never used to do. He's closed off. He's quiet. He barks at you more. He smiles at you less.

There are still birthday pancakes, sure. There are still after-hunt beers on the hood of the car (your dad's been driving around a late-model Nova lately). There are still conversations across diner tables in backwater towns after a really good job, but something's missing. The knowing, the _certainty_ , that there's someone whom you will always put first and who will always put you first in return—it's gone. Just like that, your dad is just another hunter to you.

You think about telling Dean, but every time you get up the courage to say something, you remind yourself he doesn't need to hear your troubles on top of everything his dad continues to throw at him. It takes a while, but after the third Christmas without Sam you finally learn to do what the three men in your life have been doing for years: you take all that pain, all that heartache, and you shove it deep down inside yourself where you're sure it will never get out.

 

You wake up in an unfamiliar motel room. They're all unfamiliar, really, but the difference is you don't actually remember falling asleep in this one. It's dark except for the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock. It's just past 3 AM. A storm is howling outside. Through the dingy, ineffective curtains, you can see the the glint of the security lights on the hood of your truck. There's no Impala beside it.

You lift your head off of the pillow and look around, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. There's only one bed here, the one you're sleeping on. No couch. No roll-away. Aside from you, the room is empty. You're alone.

Your phone vibrates on the bedside table. You recognize that sound. That's the sound that woke you up from your deep, inebriated (you're guessing from the various empties stashed around the nightstand) sleep. You sit up slowly, your head spinning, and look at the name on the display. Your eyes decide to come into focus just as the phone call ends. It's Dean.

It comes rushing back to you. You've been on your own for days now. This is the fourth or fifth night you've shacked up alone in a hellhole like this. It's also the fourth or fifth night you drink yourself to sleep. And it's the fourth or fifth night you've ignored Dean's phone calls.

It's not even the last fight that sends you packing. It's the casual indifference afterwards. It's John and your dad planning the rest of a job behind your back after you argue with them over the way they want to handle it. It's the way they talk to you over their shoulders like you're an afterthought. It's the way even Dean doesn't think to ask if you're all right because he's so caught up in trying to please his father he forgets how to do anything but stand in a corner and grunt “yeah.”

The group takes off on the hunt and you're right behind them. At first. You let up a little on the gas and watch them speed off in front of you, and it feels okay. It feels good, in fact. They take that first turn off and you go straight even though you have your blinker on. The exhilaration kicks you in the ass so hard you almost jump out of your seat. You've never disobeyed your dad before. You've never had any reason to. This is the first time you've ever rebelled, and godDAMN does it feel good.

You ride that high all the way to the next town where you decide to keep on going. Your phone is ringing like mad in the passenger seat, but you ignore it. You slip a CCR cassette into the Ford's junky old tape deck and let the music pour over you. This is the most alive you've ever felt. It's almost enough to let you ignore the twinge of guilt that starts throbbing in your chest once the first side of the cassette ends.

The twinge eventually becomes a pang, and then evolves into a sharp, stabbing spasm just underneath your ribcage. It's been six hours since you took off when you pull over for the night. You find a rattrap motel just off the interstate, slap down the $35 cash the manager asks for (no questions), and drag the fifth of whiskey you've unknowingly been saving for just such an occasion upstairs to the dismal place you'll be calling home tonight. You've missed over fifty phone calls. You clear them all and delete the voicemails without listening to a single one. Then you drink until that spasm in your chest is just a tickle and the world is blotted out by sleep.

For the next several days, you repeat the pattern.

John is the first to stop the calls. Your dad falls off after the second day. But Dean doesn't give up. He keeps calling you, leaving voicemail after voicemail. You don't answer. You can't.

The vibrating starts again, but it's shorter this time. It's a text. The first one Dean's sent since you left.

“COME HOME.”

 

Sammy's been gone for almost four years when it happens.

Your dad's zeroed in on a pack of werewolves somewhere outside Des Moines. He's been tracking the big daddy wolf for about six months on his own when he finds them; almost immediately, John takes over the operation and starts calling the shots. You're livid. Your dad and Dean are following orders like the good little lackeys they are, and you've finally had enough. The afternoon you and your dad are supposed to pair up and take point on the attack, you let him know exactly how you feel about John Winchester. After years of keeping it all inside, you finally get up the guts to demand to know why he's so willing to follow the man like you're all in his platoon in Vietnam.

You're sitting on the edge of your crappy motel room bed, fuming. Your dad walks in from the bathroom. "You ready to go?"

You don't even look up at him when you speak. "Why didn’t you stand up to him?"

"Jesus, not now—"

"I’m serious. You never stand up to John, and you never want to talk about it. I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me why."

"We’ve got until sundown until those things move again. If we miss this opportunity, that’s months of work down the drain."

You slam your fists into the mattress in exasperation. "God damn it, Dad, can you please forget about the job for one second?"

He's not remotely phased by your outburst. "The job is what matters right now." He grabs his gun from the motel room desk, checks the chamber, and shoves it into his bag.

You're appalled. You stand up to face him, but he isn't paying you a second thought as he continues making sure his kit is in order before he heads out. "You sound just like him. You helped train him, not the other way around. He should be listening to you. I don't understand why you let him act like he's back in the Marines and the rest of us are just his soldiers!”

“We _are_ soldiers.” His nonchalance is astounding.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me—”

“That's enough!” He finally explodes, wheeling on you.

You're stunned into silence. The rage in his voice is palpable. Your dad has never spoken to you like that before. You stare at him like it's your first time setting eyes on him.

He tries to calm himself and fails. “We have a mission here and we are damn near out of time. Once we take care of these bastards, you and I can sit down and have a nice long chat about everything, but until then you need to fall in line and do your damn job. Now, are you ready to go or not?”

It's the first time in your life your dad tells you to put the job first. You're furious enough to make sure it's the also the last.

“I'm not going anywhere with you.” You cross the room to stand by the bathroom door.

“Fine. Throw your little tantrum. I thought I raised you better than this.”

He slings his pack over his shoulder and walks outside. The door slams closed behind him and you shout in the ensuing silence, “GO TO HELL!”

You're alone and still seething two hours later when John walks into the motel room. Dean's waiting out in the car. Your dad isn't with them.

_Your dad isn't with them._

Something is wrong. There's no reason John and Dean should be here without him. That isn't part of the plan. Your dad went out alone against an entire pack of monsters two hours ago. Why isn't he with John? You race to your truck and throw her into gear. John barely has time to jump in the passenger seat before you're peeling out of the parking lot and speeding down the road to the place your dad's pegged as the nest.

“Why did you let him go out alone?” You'll never forget John's words after today. “He's gonna get himself killed.”

Your foot is nearly flat on the floor of the cab. John's holding on to the seat for dear life. You've never driven this fast before and you don't think you ever will again.

But it doesn't matter. You're too late.

The nest is gone, and all you find when you enter that vacant Iowa warehouse is your dad lying facedown in a pool of his own blood.

The sound that comes out of you is inhuman.

“No, no, no. Dad, please. Daddy, please, please no.”

You drop to your knees and struggle to pull your dad into your lap. He's limp, and it's nearly impossible to move him. His blood soaks into your clothes until you're covered in it. There's so much of it. How can there be so much blood?

“Please, daddy, please be okay,” you plead, your voice caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. You put your hands over the wounds on his neck and torso and try to stop the bleeding. Except he isn't bleeding anymore. He's been dead at least an hour. The blood is already congealing... and your dad is cold.

John is at your back trying desperately to pull you to your feet, but you won't let him You can't leave your dad. You won't leave him. You have to wake him up. You have to get him home.

You bury your face against his chest and sob.

“I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

 

You're never quite the same after that.

John tells you over and over again that it's not your fault, but you don't allow yourself to believe him. If you had put the job first, if you had shut your mouth and fallen in line like your dad asked, he would still be alive. When Dean's not around, John's a little softer towards you. Not kinder, necessarily, but gentler. He recognizes the new emptiness in you and tries to fill it the only way he knows how.

You stay in the life. It's not like you have another choice. You stick with John and Dean, but it's different now. You're different. You don't fight with them anymore. You shut up and take orders when you feel like it, and when you don't, you leave. They know better than to come after you these days. They know you'll come back when you're ready. You always come back.

Soon enough, John is gone and Sam is back in the picture. It's the first time the three of you—you, Sam, and Dean—have been together on your own. It brings some of your fire back. You and your boys are at it again.

But it's not as good as it should have been.

It's not until their dad dies too that they understand:

You all had that gaping hole in your heart where your mothers were supposed to be; now the holes are twice the size, and there's no filling them. No amount of sex or booze or food or revenge is ever going to plug up that emptiness. Even when you look whole to the rest of the world, there will always be a missing piece.

You grow up. You kill some monsters. You hustle pool.

The three of you carry on. What else is there to do?

 

Sam is the first of you to die. Then Dean. Then you. And the sequence continues for a few years. The three of you take turns dying and coming back, dying and coming back. You make deals. You get revenge at any cost. You trick gods and extort promises from monsters. Crossroads demons start keeping you on speed-dial. The self-sacrifice whiplash is getting to be hell on your necks.

You even manage to infect an angel of the lord with the “fuck-up” bug you all seem to be carrying. Another wayward son longing for an absent father. Team Free-fucking Will.

You've seen just about everything this big bad world has to offer by the time the apocalypse rolls around.

The End of Days almost comes as a relief. You've been struggling for years just to keep your head afloat, and it's finally about to be over. The Powers That Be decide they're ready to call it quits. So what if it makes all your sacrifices meaningless? So what if it negates all the good you've ever done in your life? Good riddance to bad rubbish. You're more than happy to tap out on this one.

And you would have gotten away with it if it weren't for those meddling Winchesters.

They make you want to keep fighting. They make you want to make this world a better place. You've wanted to make them proud ever since you were a young, skinny kid with a bad haircut and skinned knees learning how to shoot a rifle in the backwoods of Who-The-Fuck-Remembers, USA. They're the only thing keeping you going, and you're not about to give up on their watch.

 

The look on Cas' face the first time he tries a chocolate milkshake is the most amazing thing you've seen in years. You watch as the different sensations hit him: the cold, the sweetness, the fluffiness of the whipped cream. It's so good, it actually manages to distract you from the pity party you've been throwing yourself for the last month.

You grin, and it's the first genuine smile you've offered in weeks. “Dude, I didn't think your face could do that.”

Cas pulls back from the straw and stares the question at you. “Do what?”

“Have expressions.” You shove a handful of fries into your mouth and steal back the shake. Cas smiles a little and folds his hands on the table. You take a sip yourself, and the milkshake/fries combination is basically heaven.

“I'm sure that's not how milk is supposed to taste,” he confesses, leaning in conspiratorially, “But I understand why it might bring the boys to the yard.”

You choke on your food. You start laughing so hard you're think you might actually pass out.

Cas looks endlessly pleased with himself, even if he's not sure why.

You take a minute once your laughter dies down and struggle to catch your breath. “Holy crap, that was amazing.” You lay your hand against your chest and relish the feeling of your heart thudding against your ribs.

You turn your attention back to the milkshake (and they're like—it's better than yours). The bright red bulb of a cherry has sunk awkwardly to the bottom of the glass. That just won't do. You grab a spoon and fish it out, picking it up delicately by the stem and reaching across the table to offer it to Castiel “Here. It's your first milkshake. You gotta have the cherry on top.”

Cas takes it and holds it dangerously close to his face. He's fascinated by the unnatural redness of it. “I don't believe this cherry is correct.” He puts it in his mouth and immediately spits it back into his hand.

It cracks you up all over again. Dean comes back from paying the cashier and clears his throat behind you. He slides into the booth across from you and next to Cas, shoving his wallet into his back pocket as he sits. “What's so funny?”

“This cherry, apparently.” Cas is watching you with concern, but you wave him off. You slowly regain control of yourself and wipe the tears away from the corner of your eyes.

Dean looks back and forth between the two of you, but whatever is there is lost on him. He shakes his head. “You guys ready to go?” he asks, sounding a little impatient.

“Almost,” you say, pushing your plate of fries towards him. “This is the first hot food we've had in a few days. Enjoy it, man. Sam'll be back in a minute and then we can take off.” He stares at the fries for a moment and then eats them begrudgingly; Dean Winchester is not a man to refuse good diner food. Or bad diner food, for that matter.

Meanwhile, Cas has palmed the discarded Maraschino into a napkin and tucked it behind the ketchup bottle. You watch him wipe his hands clean and smile warmly at him when he looks up.

 _Thanks Cas,_ you think. _I needed that._

He gives you the briefest of nods.

He hears you.

 

Surprise, surprise.

It turns out Sam and Dean have a bigger destiny than any of you realized. They are the tools that will bring about the End: your boys are Lucifer and Michael's true vessels. The weight of the revelation is tremendous. You don't envy them their Providence.

You find out about a month later that you're coming along for the ride—you're a vessel, too. And you're not just any vessel: you belong to the dickish archangel-in-hiding who's spent the last four years trying to kill you. Gabriel tracks you down to an empty field one particularly hopeless night and clues you in on your secret identity.

Holy rusted metal, Batman.

For a moment, it genuinely makes you feel like you have a purpose. Maybe this wasn't all for naught. Maybe you are meant to be here. Maybe all your pain and suffering is actually leading to something great in the end.

Until you remember Gabriel doesn't actually want you for anything. He's been in “witness protection” since the Norse gods walked the earth. You're just as useless as you've always been, maybe even more so now that you know your birth wasn't predestined like Sam and Dean's—you are just an accident of circumstance and the product of a parenthetically continued bloodline.

He vanishes before you have a chance to process any of it.

 

Dean nearly says yes to Michael and you've never hated him more in your entire life.

Even after the ordeal is over, you're having trouble looking at him. The very thought of it turns your stomach. After everything you've been through together, after all of those times he'd told you not to give up, he still went to Zachariah with the intention of turning into Michael's little bitch. You've spent so long convincing yourself that he and Sam are your only reasons for being alive, and he goes and proves you wrong without a second thought. Your insignificance is staggering.

You can't even stand to be in the same room as him, which becomes glaringly obvious the night you, Sam, and Dean, hole up in a ramshackle hunters' cabin in Tennessee. Sam, thinking he's helping you and Dean patch things up, leaves the two of you alone to go and get supplies. You last about five minutes before storming outside and slamming the door behind you.

A moment later, the door opens and closes again.

“We need to talk.” Dean's voice is gruff. He's scowling just like he was on your 17th birthday.

You turn away from him. “'We' don't need anything. Leave me alone, Dean, I'm serious.”

He grabs your shoulders and turns you around to face him. It's the exact move John would have pulled, and your heart lurches a little at the thought. “Damn it, I am not gonna let this one go. You need to talk to me.”

Oh, Dean wants you to talk? You'll talk. Sure, you'll talk You'll huff, and you'll puff, and you'll blow this god damn house down.

“All right," you growl. "You want to know why I have a problem with you saying yes? The only reason I do anything anymore is because I can't let you down. I don't want to be here anymore!” Your voice cracks. “I'm tired of all of it, Dean. I'm tired of fighting and hunting and killing and fighting again just so the next evil thing can come out of the woodwork to try and beat us down. I'm tired. I want this to be over, but I can't let you down.

“And when you give up, you're telling me I've been right all along. I don't matter. I never have. It doesn't matter if I let you down because you don't care _because I don't matter_.”

Dean's expression is a mix of horror and pain as he stares at you. You want to stop, but you can't. You've opened the floodgates and now it's all pouring out.

You drop your gaze and lower your voice. “You remember that siren last year? You couldn't imagine what he possibly could have offered me to make me want to kill you and Sam. Dean, he offered me priority. He said if I got rid of you, I would always be first. I would always matter.”

His voice is quiet when he says “You matter.”

“Not where it counts. My mother didn't want me. The angel whose vessel I was born to be doesn't want me. My dad was the only person who ever cared, and even he didn't need me in the end. Now you're ready to say yes to Michael and end it all. Why am I here?”

What, exactly, is the point of you?

 

Well, it seems there _is_ no point of you. Your whole life is here, wrapped up in a neat little package, and this is the sum of it. This is all it amounts to. This is where it ends.

 

You think you're looking into the bluest pair of eyes you've ever seen.

But your eyes are closed, and when you open them there's nothing there but the stark white curtain pulled closed around your hospital bed.

You're groggy. Your head weighs a million pounds. There are wires and tubes attached to you everywhere you can see skin.

_The last thing you remember is standing in that alley..._

You glance down your right arm, afraid of what you might see. To your surprise, your hand is there, neatly attached at the wrist underneath the hospital bracelet emblazoned with your name.

The ringing in your ears clears and sounds around you start fading back in. You hear the beeping of machines, the hushed voices of doctors and nurses in the hallway. You immediately know where you are. You're in the ER.

You try to sit up, but every inch of your body protests. You grunt and fall back against the mattress, breathing in deep the smell of antiseptic as you try to regain control of your senses.

“Dean, she's awake.”

Sam's voice floats to you from just beyond the curtain. A hand pushes the cloth aside and you're greeted by the welcomed sight of the two battered Winchester boys. They're covered in bandages. Dean's arm is in a sling. They both look like they tried to take on a freight train and lost.

But they're here.

“What...” you wince and stop as soon as you try to get the words out. Your throat's on fire.

“Shh,” Sam says, “You shouldn't try to talk. They had to intubate you. Your throat's gonna be raw for a few days.”

You listen for once. You shut up and shake your head at him, puzzled, and rub the bruised skin of your neck. It's all a blur, especially after having just watched your own personal highlights reel. There was an alley, of course. And blood. And bodies.

“We got jumped,” Dean explains. He moves up behind Sam so they're both standing at your bedside. “Demons. A whole mess of 'em. They separated you from me and Sam before we knew what was happening.”

You look down at your right hand again. You weren't imagining it; you know something tore the damn thing off. You should be looking at a nice, meaty stump, and you can't figure out why you're not.

Sam notices your confusion before Dean does. “Cas,” he offers. “He got there at the last second. Barely managed to mojo you back together before he took them out.”

You try to speak again, but only get out, “Where—” before the pain stops you short a second time.

“Knock it off,” Sam chides you gently. “He's fine. He's back at the motel trying to recuperate.”

“He only had enough juice to get you keep you alive until we got you here.” Dean spreads his hands in front of him in a grand gesture. “Hence, all this luxury.” You can't help but smirk at that. He grins a little and pats the side your foot with the hand on his good arm. “Docs couldn't believe it. You should have been a lost cause. Guess they underestimated you, huh?”

You exhale a laugh through your nose. Yeah, they really did.

“Seriously,” Dean continues, his face completely solemn now. Sam's expression mirrors his brother's. “You had us worried, kid.”

You stare at each other for a long time.

 

The next day, they take you home.


End file.
